


wanting and needing

by eggofangel



Category: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, emotional sex is one of my weaknesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggofangel/pseuds/eggofangel
Summary: Huck begins to notice the more frequently he spends nights at Tom’s.





	wanting and needing

Huck begins to notice the more frequently he spends nights at Tom’s, pressed up close to him in bed, soft, hungry noises wafting up into the dense air between them.

Tom is at his most needy then.

It is early morning and dawn has not yet broken. They can hear the first soft, sweet notes of the birds’ song outside, and the glow of the lamp on the nightstand has begun to fade. The flame casts their dancing shadows against the wall, the flickering silhouettes of their bodies entwined, quivering, breathing, pulsing together.

Huck has his calloused palm against Tom’s cock, his fingers wrapped around him snug, and his face buried in the nape of his neck. His curls tickle Huck’s nose, so Huck supposes he should return the favor. He presses his lips down the knobs of Tom’s spine, catching as many in his mouth as he can and listening to the soft noises that come tumbling freely from Tom’s lips. There is no excessive show about him right now, no bawdy noise he makes. It is too early, and he is too tired for it. His hand is fisted in the pillow, eyes shut and breath rattling faintly through parted lips. Huck wishes he could see his flushed face better, but the solid weight of his body close against his own seems be compensating quite nicely.

Huck always kisses so much when they are like this. He’s not certain why. Tom always enjoys it immensely, so it is not necessarily something he’d complain about, but he’s never touched anyone much before. He supposes it shouldn’t be special. It’s only natural that when one does things such as these, he _would_ touch more. Hopefully. Both are silently, glaringly aware of it all the same.

Huck peppers kisses, still more kisses up the back of Tom’s neck until his breath is fluttering over Tom’s ear. Tom melts in his hands again and laughs and sighs. He cranes his head around and looks at Huck just long enough for him to see that Tom’s eyes are as big as moons, his open lips still smiling mildly as he gasps and moans. The throb of his pulse lingers like a phantom against Huck's lips, remains seared on the pad of his thumb as he strokes the sweep of skin between collarbone and throat.

With a shudder and a cry, Huck’s fingers coax Tom’s spend from him, and he spills into his hand. Very slowly, Huck milks Tom’s cock through its completion and doesn’t release his gentle grip until it goes soft in his hand. They go still, only until Tom begins to writhe back against Huck, who is still pressed up, neglected and hard, between their bodies.

With energy that is uncharacteristic for anyone who has just had an orgasm, Tom sits up and laughs again (Huck loves hearing his laughter like this, weary and yet still playful, brilliant; like crushed velvet around the edges from the overuse of minutes past—or lack thereof, in this case). He slinks over in between Huck’s thighs, and the sight of him naked and beaming, head looming over his rigid cock, lashes fanned out against his cheeks and casting spidery shadows in the flickering light of the lamp—it twists Huck’s heart in the most pleasurably painful way. Tom is at his most needy, but Huck _wants_ so badly this morning.

Huck’s battered fingers stay entwined in the curls of Tom’s hair, tugging gently at his scalp. Tom lets him. The heat in his stomach rises, and crests, and falls in waves. When he finishes, Tom stares languidly at him as he swallows. Huck brushes his thumb over Tom’s cheek. They’ve done this countless times before, and yet it still feels strangely new. It often feels that way for Huck.

They stay in bed and sleep that particular morning until daylight is spilling over them in rivulets through the windowpane, the beat of the sun gentle against their skin. When Huck wakes up the sole occupant in a bed for two and hears Tom rifling noisily through cooking utensils in the kitchen, he can only stare at the ceiling and wonder.

He has never lived with someone like this before.

He’s never _really_ lived with anyone before at all, if it means belonging without question—for the first few years of his life, he had shared what he tentatively called a home with his father, who rarely seemed to notice he was there at all unless he was beating him senseless. The small cabin he inhabited with his pap that summer he went down the river with Jim—it does not count. He knows now it had been a cage, and yet, he deceived himself into thinking it better than the Douglas Manor to make surviving within it more bearable. He had lived with the Widow Douglas, who was a kindly, sweet old woman, filled with nothing but good intentions; and his stay with her had been far from excruciating. But there had been so much fuss surrounding every moment of living with her and her sister, so much of it, he wanted to disappear at times. And he had.

Beside his father he had been fighting and beside the Widow he had been failing.

Here, he is falling asleep in the crook of someone’s arm, draped over a bed with him, and lying with him the whole night through. Huck is only existing, and not being bothered for it. He is living. He’s sure of it.


End file.
